


The Society of the Green Carnation

by adlerirene



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon Compliant, Happy Ending, Historical References, Kind of Historically Accurate with Artistic Liberties, Light Angst, M/M, Mention of Suicidal Ideation, Oscar Wilde Trials, POV First Person, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21719080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adlerirene/pseuds/adlerirene
Summary: April, 1985. The Trials of Oscar Wilde.When Holmes receives a letter, Watson is dragged into a meeting of a mysterious society. This is the story of the "combination of events" which led to their stay in a university town in The Adventure of the Three Students.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 57





	The Society of the Green Carnation

**Author's Note:**

> _“Here dwell together still two men of note_   
>  _Who never lived and so can never die:_   
>  _How very near they seem, yet how remote_   
>  _That age before the world went all awry._   
>  _But still the game’s afoot for those with ears_   
>  _Attuned to catch the distant view-halloo:_   
>  _England is England yet, for all our fears—_   
>  _Only those things the heart believes are true._   
>  _A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane_   
>  _As night descends upon this fabled street:_   
>  _A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,_   
>  _The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet._   
>  _Here, though the world explode, these two survive,_   
>  _And it is always eighteen ninety-five.”_   
>  _\- Vincent Starrett_

**FROM THE PRIVATE REMINISCENCES OF JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.,  
LATE OF THE ARMY MEDICAL DEPARTMENT, PUBLISHED POSTHUMOUSLY WITH PERMISSION FROM GRANDDAUGHTER, ** **CATHERINE H. WATSON**

_The following text is an adventure that my adoptive grandfather would have never, in all his time, allowed even the most avid of his readers to see. My father, who was taken in by Holmes and Watson, has left to me the duty of doing what must be done with the unpublished works. In what was termed “The Adventure of the Three Students,” the two men spent some time in a university town due to a “combination of events, into which [they] need not enter;” this, dear reader, is the story of those events, and how they led to their stay away from the city. The incidents from this account could have had dire ramifications on the reputation of my adoptive grandfathers; even leading to imprisonment. However, times have changed, and it is with great pleasure that I present to you, the adventure of “The Society of the Green Carnation.”  
\- Catherine Holmes Watson_

**April, 1895**

In all the cases I have partaken with my esteemed friend, this is one which will never reach the pages of The Strand and the eyes of even the most devoted of my readers. However, the following incident holds a certain sentimental value, and thus, for my own sake, will be written into the pages of my private journal.

It was the 17th of April, just a week ago. It was the early hours of the morning, and the sun had yet to rise. I had been roused from my bed by the sounds of Holmes pacing in the sitting-room downstairs.  


“Holmes?” I traipsed down the stairs quietly, not wanting to awaken Mrs. Hudson in the rooms below. “What the deuce is the matter? What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?” He appeared gaunter than usual and his normally proud shoulders were hunched; it was as if he had been struck by a sickness overnight.  


“Watson.” He turned towards me. His usually sharp eyes had become unfocused. “I-”  


“My dear Holmes!” I exclaimed, fearing my companion would collapse where he stood. “Sit down, man. You look dreadfully ill. How long has it been since you last slept?”  


My companion hobbled to his armchair, took a seat, and shook his head indignantly. “Watson. I am perfectly alright. You must be imagining things.”  


“Ah, well, if you insist…” I said, settling onto the armchair opposite his, not wanting to agitate him further. It was then that I noticed a sheet of paper in his hand. “Holmes? What is that?”  


Something that resembled fear flickered in his eyes before he quickly schooled his expression to mask his emotions. “It is nothing. Simply a letter from an acquaintance. Shouldn’t you go back to bed? It is barely five in the morning after all.”  


“Holmes…” I knew he was hiding something from me, something to do with the letter, but I could not, for the life of me, figure out what it was.  


“Hmm?” he replied, feigning innocence. “What is it, Watson?”  


“Hand me the paper.”  


“No.”  


“Holmes.”  


“No.”  


“Why ever not? What are you hiding from me, my dear fellow?”  


“It’s nothing.”  


“Holmes, I know there is something you aren’t telling me. Your hands are shaking; you look like you haven’t slept in days. It’s almost like when…” I sighed, not wanting to reawaken the unpleasant memories of the days leading to his supposed demise.  


“Watson. No.” He must have realised what I was about to say. “My dear Watson, I would never do that again; not to you. Do you really believe that I have not learned my lesson after I-” he paused. “After I… left you…” He sighed, his hands moving to steeple under his chin, his preferred stance while thinking. “Watson I-” he broke off.  


I looked up at my friend. “Yes, Holmes?”  


He remained silent—as did I—and so we sat, gazing into each other’s eyes. His stare was fierce and powerful. His piercing eyes forever seared into my memory. His ordinarily steady grey eyes were like the sky during a storm; turbulent, intense, electric, captivating… Strangely… 

Beautiful. 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke. “Watson,” he breathed. “I trust, in all our years together, that you… I… Your discretion…” I had never seen the man so unsure of his words. “I trust you.” He looked away, seemingly embarrassed by his emotional declaration.  


“Holmes. Look at me.” I waited for his eyes to return to mine. “My dear Holmes, we were acquainted in 1881. I would hope that I have proven myself worthy of such a privilege by now.” I smiled.  


“Watson,” he returned my smile; the expression not quite reaching his eyes. “You are aware of the trials?”  


“The… Oh yes. The trials concerning the playwright and author? Oscar Wilde? I believe they charged him with… What was the phrase they used in the paper? ‘Gross indecency’?”  


Holmes tensed almost imperceptibly. “Yes. I do believe that it was the phrase they used.”  


“Holmes,” I asked. “What do the trials have to do with the letter you received?”  


“Well, my dear Watson,” he said, handing me the letter. “It would be better for you to see for yourself.”

_Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

_As the new chairman of The Society, I must ask you to attend an emergency meeting, concerning the claims against Mr. Wilde. The meeting will be held at half past five this morning, at the society headquarters; I trust you remember the location. You will be required to present your badge upon entrance. It is of utmost importance that you attend this meeting, and that you do so discreetly. We cannot risk exposure this time._

_Robert Ross_

“Good Lord! A secret society?”  


Holmes nodded. “It is twenty minutes to the headquarters, and we have half an hour left. Will you come with me?”  


“Holmes,” I answered. “Of course I shall go with you. I do not know a thing of what is happening, but I know it is important. I will not let you go alone.”  
He breathed a small sigh of relief. “I am ever grateful for your companionship Watson. Now, you had better go and get dressed. We must look like presentable gentlemen.”

We left Baker Street the moment I got dressed, and walked quickly from our rooms to the society’s headquarters. It was in a part of town that I had rarely been. Holmes dragged me into an alley next to a nondescript building. As he grabbed a hold of my arm I couldn’t help but be amazed at his elegance, when what had seemed like just moments ago, he appeared so sickly. I was mesmerised by the way his hair was so artfully styled—as if every strand were meant to be where it was—and how it accentuated the striking contours of his face; the way his eyes glinted in the morning twilight, almost opalescent. I was drawn out of my thoughts by Holmes speaking. “Watson?”  


“Hmm? Yes?”  


“I do apologise for the secrecy,” he sighed. “But the... issue… concerning Wilde is delicate. I trust you are intelligent enough to grasp what I’m saying here, so you must understand the clandestine nature of the meeting.”  


“Yes, Holmes,” I replied. “I do read the papers, you know.”  


He nodded, and knocked on the door with a sharp rap. The door was answered by a stern-looking man; his hair was brown with a reddish tint, and was slicked back neatly, but his beard was unkempt, and seemed to have a life of its own. Holmes made to enter the building, but the man blocked his path and raised an eyebrow expectantly.  


Holmes rolled his eyes. “Shaw,”—Bernard Shaw, I later found out. The playwright known for his particularly radical views.—“you know who I am.”  


“Ah,” he replied, smirking at Holmes, “but you could be somebody in disguise. How am I to know you are really Mr. Sherlock Holmes? This is a time of crisis after all.” He paused, his smile growing wider, “Besides, you don’t have your signature hat with you; it is awfully hard to recognise you without it.”  


Holmes snarled, “That bloody hat-”  


“Oi, Holmes, language.”  


“Always with the hat!” He turned to me exasperatedly, “Watson, we simply must tell the illustrators to draw my hat accurately. I do not wear a deerstalker. Do you have any idea how unaesthetically appealing it is? I would never be caught wearing something as tasteless as that hat.” I chuckled fondly; Holmes often lamented on the growing fame his nonexistent deerstalker was gaining. My companion sighed, and reached into his breast pocket, revealing a pin that featured a queer green flower. “Happy?”  


“Quite,” Shaw laughed, opening the door and ushering us into the room.  


“Holmes!” A mousy-looking man, who could not have been older than 27, but had already thinning dark hair, called us over. “It is very good of you to come. There is much we need to discuss; not at all good, I’m afraid.” He eyed me warily. “And who is this, might I ask?”  


“My apologies. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. John Watson. I assure you, you can speak as freely to him as you would to me.” The detective smiled—a real smile—which was something he rarely did in the presence of others. “I trust him implicitly.”  


“Oh yes, of course!” the man replied. “My name is Robbie Ross; I am the one who called this meeting today. I am sorry that we had to meet under such terrible circumstances, but it is a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson.”  


Another man approached us. He must have been at least six feet, with hair of a nondescript brown. His eyes were a light blue; his nose was slender, and slightly aquiline. And I had definitely seen him in the papers. “Ah! Holmes, it is good to see you again, albeit under a… less than pleasant situation.”  


“Yes, indeed. It has been a while since we last met. The last I saw you was in ‘93, I believe? When your play premiered. Well, certainly not your most recent one, as that was performed in February wasn’t it? I simply must congratulate you.”  


“Thank you, dear fellow.” He glanced towards me. “And you must be the admirable Dr. Watson!”  


“Er, yes.”  


“It is an honour to meet you. I have read the tales of your adventures with Holmes in The Strand. They are quite outstanding.”  


“Thank you. That is very kind of you to say, Mr.…?”  


“Oh, how rude of me!” The man stuck out his hand. “Oscar Wilde.”  


My eyes widened in disbelief as I shook his hand. “I knew I recognised you from the papers,” I laughed. “Not in a million years would I have expected to meet you, Mr. Wilde, at an ungodly hour of the morning, at the meeting of a secret society.”  


“Likewise, Dr. Watson. Likewise.”  


“Ahem.” A clear ring sounded through the room.  


“Ah,” Holmes said. “It appears the meeting is about to start. Come, Watson.” He walked towards the center of the room—where various chairs were placed in a circular form—and sat down on a loveseat. I took my place beside him and looked around the room to see a number of unfamiliar faces. The only men I had been introduced to were Wilde, Ross, and Shaw. My gaze drifted to a young man beside Wilde; he had an innocent, youthful face, and was fair, with light brown hair and a thin nose. While I used the word “beside,” it would be far more accurate to say he was very nearly on top of the man. Wilde’s arm was slung around his shoulder, and the young man’s head was resting against his.  


“Lord Alfred Douglas,” Holmes whispered in my ear. “Wilde’s lover.” My eyebrows raised in surprise at their casual, public display of affection.  


My eyes travelled around the circle. There were four other men present; a dark haired man with a full beard, a man with a thick moustache, another man with thinning hair, and a man who looked quite sickly.  


“Roger Casement, Reginald Turner, Max Beerbohm, and Aubrey Beardsley,” Holmes said, tracking my gaze.  


As I looked around the room, I noticed that all of the attendees wore immaculate suits, and looked as put-together as Holmes did; I felt quite out of place among the group of dandies and aesthetes.  


“You look fine,” Holmes assured me, reading my mind. It still amazed me, after all this time, the way Holmes could tell so much about a person from just one glance.  


“Thank you all for coming at such an early hour.” Ross spoke first. “Especially you, Dr. Watson, as I know you barely have an inkling of what we are to talk about, but any advice we can get will surely be of use.”  


“Oh,” I replied. “It’s no trouble at all. Holmes seemed quite distraught,”—the man in question let out an indignant noise at the blatant reveal of his emotions—“and I simply couldn’t let him go alone.”  


“Holmes?” interrupted the man who Holmes pointed out as Roger Casement.  


“Hm?” Holmes raised an eyebrow.  


Casement grinned, as if he were trying not to laugh. “May I just ask; how ever did you manage to secure the affections of someone like Dr. Watson here? With your attitude?” I had to actively suppress my laughter; I had never met a group of people who were able to banter with my partner like this. I bit down on my lip to hide the smile that was threatening to bloom on my face; it is true that Holmes is brash at times, but I wouldn’t change him for anything.  


Holmes looked slightly insulted, and he opened his mouth in mock offense. “Oh do shut up, Casement,” he nearly growled.  


“I’m sorry, Holmes,” Casement laughed. “But you must admit that I do have a point.”  


Holmes’ gaze shifted towards me and his previously offended expression softened. “Yes,” he breathed. “I believe you do.” I smiled up at him fondly as I met his eyes, and I found myself entranced, once again, by those piercing, silver-  


“Well,” Ross coughed. “Um, the matter at hand.”  


Holmes flushed scarlet, the blush rising up his alabaster cheekbones as we turned back towards the others. “Right, my apologies.”  


Wilde smiled at us warmly; almost wistfully. The young man who was sat beside him, Douglas, declared, “My father is not going to win this, Oscar. We won’t let him.”  


Holmes whispered in my ear once more. “He’s the son of the Marquess of Queensberry, the man whom Wilde sued for libel.”  


“Douglas,” replied Ross. “There is just too much evidence against him… Oscar, you know I would only suggest your hiding if I knew the trials would end in your imprisonment.”  


“Nonsense,” Wilde proclaimed. “And even if he did have enough evidence to put me away, I cannot just hide in Paris.”  


“But Oscar-”  


“No.”  


“Well Oscar,” said Douglas haughtily. “I, for one, support your decision no matter what. If you wish to stay in London, then you should.”  


“Douglas, please,” Ross said sternly. His tone changed from annoyance to worry as he turned to Wilde. “Oscar, none of us want to lose you to the prisons like this. You must go.”  


“Robbie, I-” he sighed.  


“Wilde?” Holmes interrupted. “I have to agree with Ross here. Staying here will only cause your downfall. The court’s case will be strong against you—you will be imprisoned for God knows how long. You know I work with the police on occasion, and I would only suggest your leaving if I knew you would have to face the harrowing consequences otherwise. You will be imprisoned. Trust me. I do urge you to go to France.”  


“Yes,” said Turner. “It is for the best. You know there is too much evidence against you.” A murmuring chorus of agreements sounded across the room.  


“Pshaw,” Wilde replied to the urgings of his associates. “I am not running in cowardice.”  


“It is not cowardice,” Holmes responded, “but simply self-preservation.”  


“Holmes,” he pleaded. “You are an intelligent man. You must understand why I cannot do this.”  


Before Holmes could answer, I coughed, “If I may interject?” They nodded. “Mr. Wilde. I strongly advise you to go to France.” He opened his mouth to protest. “Wait. I have not finished.” I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the worst. “When…” I sighed bitterly. “You see, when I… lost… Holmes, I had no desire to live.”  


“Watson I-” Holmes’ voice was pained.  


“Let me finish, man. I had lost all reason to live. My life was bleak, just as it had been when I returned from Afghanistan. I nearly took it away from myself, stopping only for the sake of my late wife. I saw him… everywhere. As I walked along the pavement, or as I sat in a cab, I would see a tall, lean man with aquiline features pass by, and I would, for a minute second, think it was my friend. Then,” I choked out. “I would realise. That… That he was… gone. That he was never coming back. That I could never-” I stopped; there were things that I couldn’t say in front of an audience. I didn’t know when it happened, but I could feel tears forming in my eyes. I could not bear to see Holmes’ reaction to my confession. I cleared my throat, and wiped away the wetness. “So, Mr. Wilde, pray, go to France. You will spare your loved ones the grief of the possibility of never seeing you again.”  


Wilde looked conflicted. “Dr. Watson, your story has been quite enlightening. However, I simply cannot- I-” He sighed. “My deepest apologies, but I simply cannot run to France! It would be shameful of me. And even…” He glanced around the room. “Even if I am imprisoned, I will be released eventually. It will not be the same as death.”  


I didn’t know what else to do. I had revealed the thoughts and feelings that I had kept hidden within the depths of my mind. I had revealed something that I knew would change the relationship between Holmes and myself—for better or for worse—and yet, it had done nothing. I could feel Holmes gaze upon me, and I resolutely kept my eyes away from him, terrified of what I would see if I met his stare. While I desperately wished to know if he returned my sentiment, I was terrified at the prospect of his rejection.  


“Oscar,” Ross appealed. “Please. You know we cannot force you to leave the country…. But you must- you must listen to reason… Did you not hear a thing of what Dr. Watson said? Of what any of us did?”  


“Robbie, I- I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m sorry.”  


Ross sighed resignedly, “Well, if you won’t leave the country, we can at least try to keep others safe.” He looked around the room gravely. “We must be discreet with our affairs. More prudent than usual. It is a difficult time, and with Oscar’s trial plastered throughout the papers, everyone will be on the lookout for the slightest hint of an indiscretion. I do urge most of you to get out of the city. France, as we’ve mentioned, or even one of the quieter country towns. Cambridge, for example. Oxford, perhaps.”  


It was at this point of the conversation that I realised the implications of what Ross was saying; what the entire society was about. I didn’t know what I had thought when I first walked in here with Holmes, but everything suddenly made sense. The secrecy, Ross’ wariness at my entrance, Holmes’ despair… His despair. A thousand thoughts rushed into my mind at once. I can barely remember what I was thinking at that moment, only the feelings: confusion, understanding, wonderment… and hope. I had often found myself thinking that my affection for Holmes ran deeper than mere friendship; I had grieved him in a far more profound way than I grieved my own wife—I could barely function during the time when he was not with me—but I had never allowed myself to linger on these foreign feelings. There were always moments, of course, the quiet, painfully domestic moments at Baker Street; the fierce, adrenaline-fueled glances during our cases; Holmes’ small, rare, but genuine smile; the many ways he uttered my name… These were the moments when where I had nearly let myself have that hope, the hope that I could love him freely, openly—at least within the confines of our home; but they were quickly shattered by the reality of our society, where any prospect of a relationship between Holmes and myself wasn’t normal, and one could get imprisoned for this so-called indecency. But now that I knew Holmes’ proclivities surely ran in the direction of his own sex, the hope flourished.  


“Yes, I do believe that it would be best for most of us to leave the city, if not the country,” said Casement. “I am off to somewhere in Portuguese East Africa soon—duty calls… I do wish the best for all of you.”  


A sombre silence overcame the members of the room, as if the severity of the situation just struck. “So do I, Casement,” Ross murmured. He sighed, “We should be off, before the streets get busy.”  


“Yes,” replied Wilde, as we all stood from our seats. “Thank you ever so much for coming Dr. Watson,” he said, reaching for my hand. “Your anecdote was… I am truly sorry. It was an honour to meet you.”  


“The honour was all mine,” I replied, shaking his hand in farewell. “I do wish we had met under a more pleasant pretext.”  


“Likewise, Dr. Watson. Likewise.”

Holmes and I walked back to Baker Street in solemn silence. The weight of my confession and my sudden epiphany hanging heavy in the crisp, spring air.  
Holmes dragged himself to the window of our sitting-room, and peered down at the street below. “It is sad, Watson.” He broke the silence. “To know that one of the finest writers of our time will be sent to his downfall. All because of whom he loves.”  


“Yes, Holmes. It is a tragedy indeed.”  


My friend turned to face me. “Watson,” he said, his body tense as if he was bracing himself for an onslaught of strikes. “Was it true? Did you- Did you want to take your own life?”  


I knew it was no use lying to him; I had already confessed as much in the meeting. And even if I tried, he would see right through me. “Yes,” I breathed. He rushed towards me, stopping before he reached my chair; his hands seemingly reaching for me, but quickly clenched back at his sides. “I could not- I cannot,” I amended, “bear to live in a world without you.”  


“Watson. My dear Watson,” he uttered quietly. “Again, I- I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea you would be this affected by my demise—I should have been aware of this sooner… Watson,” he murmured, “being away from you for so long tormented me. I wrote you so many letters, and I very nearly sent them. I-” He broke away, his watery eyes meeting mine. “Watson. Please.” He stood up, walked to his desk, and retrieved a stack of notes and letters, picking up a few of them. He returned to stand in front of my chair, closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, as if bracing himself. He held out the letters to me. I gingerly took the papers from him, my heart racing uncontrollably. “Watson…” He took a ragged breath, shuddering as he exhaled.

“John.”

My eyes snapped to the man in front of me. “I would like you to know that this isn’t all of it. There are… more. And if- if I’m wrong about this. About… us. Everything.” He looked away, “forgive me.” His eyes met mine once more. “Please. Forgive me.” Holmes shuffled to his room, closing the door behind him with a snap.

* * *

_Dear Watson,_

_It is with a heavy heart that I must leave you. I cannot begin to imagine the depth of what you are feeling; if it is even a fraction of my sorrow… My only wish is that I could tell you the truth—that you could come with me—but I mustn’t. There are things that I wish I could say, to let you know that I am alive and only hope to return to you, but alas, I cannot.  
_Moriarty may be dead, but his legacy lives on. Your knowledge of my survival would only put you in immense danger, and that is one thing I will never willingly do. Mycroft must remain my one confidant. My only consolation shall be letters, that will, unfortunately, never reach your hands. And so, my dear fellow, I remain,__

_Very sincerely yours,_  
_Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

_My dear Watson,_

_I have gotten a hold of your recent account—the one you titled The Final Problem; always, Watson, with your theatrical titles. However, it’s fitting, I suppose—and all I can say, is that you, in fact, are “the best and wisest man I have ever known.” What you do not have in intellect, you have made up for in loyalty and companionship. As I am sitting here, in a drafty room, somewhere in the mountains of Tibet, I can only reminisce of my time spent with you in London. I have assumed the identity of a Norwegian explorer, Sigerson—I trust that you have heard of him in the papers. I am to go to Persia soon; I am afraid that my enemies have become aware of my presence as Sigerson, and I must be discreet in my travels._  
_It has been a while since I’ve heard the name Sherlock Holmes, and I can only long for the streets of London; chasing criminals along the Thames, running through the alleyways with you by my side. It is almost as if I am someone else; as if a part of me still resides in England..._

_I am truly lost without my Boswell._

_Always yours,_  
_Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

_Watson,_

_My condolences on the loss of your wife._

_Sincerely,  
_ _Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

_Dear Watson,_

_Would it be too saccharine of me to confess that I miss you dearly?_

_Yours,  
_ _Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

_John,_

_I miss you._

_Sherlock_

* * *

And as I turned over another cream-coloured letter, my hands shaking with anticipation, the postscript—done in his hasty scrawl; a blot of ink from where he must’ve held the pen still—arrested my attention. Those three words. The words that I whispered as I knelt beside an empty grave. The words that I choked out as I wept in a room that was no longer inhabited; clutching a pillow that wasn’t mine, imagining a man who was never going to return. I had never thought that I would be able to say those words to him; let alone hear them from him. My heart raced and my hands trembled, as I all but bounded to his room, throwing open the door with a force that must’ve shaken the entire flat.  
He was sitting on his bed when I entered; his head in his hands. He looked up,—his face nearly unreadable; gaze filled with hope and trepidation—stood, and took a tentative step forward as I stopped in his doorway.  


“Watson? I-”  


“Sherlock, I-”  


We both stopped; unsure of whether or not to reach out to one another. I slowly closed the gap between us, my hand reaching to his face. His head tipped down to mine, and our noses touched. I could see his dark pupils blown wide; I could feel the warm caress of his quickening breath against my lips. “Sherlock,” my voice came out rough and unsteady. “May I-”  


“Yes,” he breathed. “Anything. Everything.”

So I kissed him.

I kissed him with all the love and longing I had kept restrained for the past decade; the anguish and desperation I had felt during those three helpless, lifeless years; the relief and hope I had felt upon his safe return. And when he returned my kiss—his hand coming to rest against my neck, the other curling around my waist; mine travelling up the nape of his neck, into his hair—with the ferocity and intensity I had only dreamed of, I felt as though I would break. At that moment, all I could feel was Sherlock; he was everything, everywhere. I wanted to laugh, cry, scream, smile; all at once. I felt like I was flying, falling; and oh, was I falling.  


When we broke the kiss, it felt as if it had lasted an eternity; a mere second. I clung to Holmes fiercely, our foreheads resting against each other. “I love you,” I whispered, finally. “Sherlock, I love you.”  


He pulled away slightly, and looked down at me; his mouth curved into that small smile of his, tears trailing down his cheeks.  


I brushed the tears away with my thumbs. “I- I’m sorry, I-”  


“No,” he said fiercely. “It’s good. It’s more than good. I just- I,” he took a deep breath, tears still streaming down his face. “I love you, John. So very much.”  


“Sherlock…” I put my lips to his once more, softer this time, and kissed him. “I love you,” I murmured in between kisses. “I love you.”  


I could feel his smile against my lips, and I couldn’t help but smile back. It was as if I had found what had been missing all these years; the one thing I had always needed, but never knew I wanted. 

The dimming streetlamps and the rising sun cast a soft glow into our rooms. The streets were quiet; the world silent. The only thing that existed—us. 

It was always him. He was the one thing that completed me.

And if time froze—if the world was about to explode—I would be content. I finally had meaning; reason; a purpose. I had never felt more alive than when I was first entwined with my brilliant enigma of a man, whispering words I had never dared to say before. 

It was from that moment, that one transcendent moment, I felt that a part of me—a part of us—had been immortalised, in the spring of eighteen ninety-five.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Kudos, comments, criticism, and whatever is greatly appreciated :))


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